Grin and Bear It
by Closemyeyesandleap
Summary: Ziva is unable to sleep and contemplates the meaning of an American idiom. Implied Tiva. Post-Good Cop, Bad Cop.


* Disclaimer #1: NCIS, sadly, is not mine

** Disclaimer #2: All book titles mentioned are inventions of my imagination. If they are the same as any real book titles, it was done entirely accidentally; I don't own the rights to those books.

*** Disclaimer #3: As I have never gone through such a traumatic experience, I can only imagine the psychological effects. I mean no disrespect to anyone who has if I explain them unrealistically.

***** Setting: Within a few weeks following Good Cop, Bad Cop, Ziva's apartment.

Have I lost you yet with my long disclaimers? Whoops. Read please. :)

Grin and Bear It

Ziva breathed a deep sigh as she leaned against her headboard and shifted restlessly. Her sweaty hand moved slowly across her bedside table, grasping for the light switch. Her roving fingers brushed a smooth book and a heavy glass of water, but she longed for the comforting barrel of her Beretta.

Upon switching on her light, she squinted at the glossy exterior of the hardcover she had purchased that week: _Connecting the Dots: The Uses and Origins of American Idioms._

Buying the book had required a certain blow to her pride. Ziva had enjoyed the unspoken game of gathering tidbits of American vernacular from her friends, coworkers, and the movies Tony insisted she see, peppering her speech with those she could barely remember, and pretending to be shocked when they came out muddled and backwards.

Mostly, without admitting it, she cherished the way Tony corrected her without thinking, the way her true meaning was clear to him seconds before anyone else could grasp it, the way he had taken the task upon himself and would seem offended if anyone else tried to fill his role. But she was going to be an American now, and she must speak like one. An American, Ziva whispered, glancing at her hand that still trembled.

Every night since Gibbs, Tony, and McGee had dragged her from the desert had been the same. Every night was a painful reminder, a haunting memory, yet a resounding assurance that she must stay or she would die - her soul if not her body.

Each night, she lay down to rest with the feeble hope that rest would come. But moments after slipping into oblivion, Ziva's slumbering mind transformed into a vivid hell, a whirl of sound and gripping fear and a pain remembered so precisely that it shot through her restless body. Trapped. Dying. Suddenly ripped from her sleep, she would struggle to remember where she was and to comprehend the empty, painless darkness. The first night, Ziva had nearly shot her own reflection in the mirror that was mounted on the horrible, sand-colored walls as she reached instinctively and desperately for her gun. It was because of that moment that she placed the firearm in the locked drawer of the desk in the corner, far away from her panicked hands. The security it had provided was gone, gone with the oblivion of sleep.

After waking, Ziva felt no desire to sleep again. Fear had torn exhaustion from her body, so she decided to devote her waking hours to learning everything she could about her new country: history, culture, correct idioms. If she was going to be an American, she wanted to be immediately accepted as one at every encounter.

Ziva hated the idea of answering the question of her birthplace over and over. Someday, she knew, the sting of betrayal would fade and happy memories would surface once again. But at this moment, she couldn't think of Israel without thinking of the father who had sent her to die and then attempted to sever her relationships with the only people she still loved and trusted.

In the darkness of the bedroom, Ziva had read her way through _The Embattled History of the Republic, The American Experience_, which turned out to be a particularly dull high school text, _Democracy As Told by the Founding Fathers, Baseball: A Culture Deeper than Sport,_ and a number of famous speeches.

As she thumbed through _Connecting the Dots_, an unexpected smile spread across her face. Perhaps mastering new idioms wouldn't ruin the game she and Tony had established, after all. Ziva could see it now: Tony would pretend to be confused and even disturbed by her success; she would grin proudly and spout off another idiom just to rub it in; he would take a cheap shot at an earlier mistake (he hadn't mentioned porcuswine in a while, after all); she would roll her eyes and pretend she hated it, loving every second, needing every joke. It was ironic, she thought, that a relationship built on a foundation of relentless and often biting humor and operating in such pretense could be, beneath it all, essentially sincere and honest. Tony was her rock when she needed one, and she was his. Behind each immature jibe was the subtle assurance that come what may, he would always be there, always the same, always Tony, even if he didn't realize it and she couldn t explain how much she needed him.

The lingering pain she felt she couldn't share not yet. Being with Tony, however, dulled the ache, distracted her. Bantering with him and teasing him brought an unexpected comfort. Thoughts of clever retorts flitted through her mind, brushing away the lingering sorrow, if only temporarily. Ziva's eyes roamed the chapter she had been drawn to-_Idioms about Hardships-_and she spotted the bolded subtitle. It read: _Grin and Bear It._ Her improbable smile widened.

Those were the perfect words. Learning to live again was hard, but Tony was helping her to do exactly that: stand strong through the pain with a wide smile on her face. When she was with Tony, she could, for a moment, _grin and bear it._


End file.
